


Show You What That Howl's For

by LayALioness



Series: When the Sunset Shifts [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, mild to mature sexual language and description, not intense ?, sexual things happen but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Next time,” he promises, “I’ll make you scream.”</p><p>“Merry Christmas to me,” Clarke breathes out shallowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show You What That Howl's For

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third part in an ongoing series. You should probably read the other two first, if you wanna be on the up and up.
> 
> There is mild/mature sexual description later on, depending on how sensitive you are to things like that, so be forewarned.
> 
> Title from "Wolf Like Me" by TV on the Radio, which is essentially this story in song form.

Clarke managed to successfully avoid Bellamy Blake for three days, before she wakes up to find him sipping coffee at the kitchen bar with her mother.

Raven is sitting at the table, trying to fit spoonfuls of cereal around her smirk. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Uh,” Clarke says. She can’t really form words before her second cup of coffee.

She’s suddenly painfully aware of her bedhead, and morning breath, and the tiny polka dotted sleep shorts stained beyond repair.

She’s also very aware of Bellamy’s eyes on her, laughing over the rim of his mug. There’s something else in them too, which she chooses to ignore in favor of caffeine. She crosses over and pours some, refusing to feel self-conscious in her own home.

“Clarke dear, you never told me you had a friend in construction,” Abby says, clearly amused by it all. She may not notice little things like her daughter’s sudden tendency to run barefoot through the woods, but she certainly knows what it means when a boy— _man_ , actually, _Jesus_ —shows up looking for Clarke at seven AM on a Sunday.

“Uh, yeah,” Clarke downs her coffee in two quick gulps, ignoring the burn as it goes down her throat. She refills her mug and heads back upstairs. “I’ll just, uh, get dressed,” she mumbles, kicking the back of Raven’s chair as she goes.

She manages to hole herself up in her bedroom for as long as her mother’s courtesy will allow, before heading back out in sweats and a tank top. She’s taken Octavia’s advice and begun mostly wearing things easily stretched, that she can run in.

 _“Elastic waistbands are a Godsend,”_ the younger Blake had said. _“Otherwise with all my shifting, I’d have to go clothes shopping every week._ ”

Clarke doesn’t make it down the hallway before Bellamy steps into view, stopping only when the toes of his boots are pressed against the tips of her bare toes. She has to crane her neck back to meet his gaze, which is infuriating, but she’s not about to look away—that means he wins.

“You’re avoiding me,” he accuses. She doesn’t deny it, because he’s not an idiot, and she likes to think she’s not _that_ much of a liar.

She just narrows her eyes at him and frowns. He huffs air through his nose, and he’s close enough that the heat of it lands on her mouth, which.

Well, she’s blaming it on all the new wolf hormones.

Now she recognizes the other look in his eyes—beyond the irritation, and a little bit of hurt, is an entirely different shade of heat, and it’s making her mouth water.

His eyes go wide in surprise, and he breathes in sharply, taking half a step back before hissing, “ _Your mother is right downstairs!_ ”

That pulls a laugh from her, loud and bubbling, because—Bellamy Blake is a prude. Who knew?

“She’s a doctor,” Clarke counters with a smirk. Yeah, she’s definitely winning this. “She knows the human body. Its needs…” She trails off with an exaggerated leer, and he bursts into laughter.

He shoves her into the wall and heads towards the stairs. “You’re such a bitch,” he says fondly.

“You like it,” she shoots back.

Strangely, things go back to normal after that. She goes back to the Blake house with him—they’re tearing up the carpet in the basement—and is crashed into from both sides by Jasper and Monty.

“We missed you,” Octavia explains with a shrug.

“You’ve seen me at school,” Clarke protests, but stops when Octavia turns her sharp eyes on her.

“It’s different and you know it,” she snaps. “This is our pack house—we don’t let just anyone in here.”

And, yeah, that kind of makes sense. Clarke hadn’t thought her awkwardness with Bellamy would affect the rest of the pack, which seems a little naïve in retrospect—of course it would, he’s their Alpha, they can feel when he’s upset.

And, well, she’s starting to think maybe they consider her pack, too. At least a little. She’s not really sure if that’s allowed, since she’s already the Alpha of her own pack—which includes a wendigo, and human, but whatever—she’s not really sure if there’s some sort of quota she’s already met.

She decides to ask Lincoln about it because she’s not really sure how to ask Bellamy, and Lexa won’t answer her phone.

“How many packs am I allowed to be Alpha of?” Clarke decides not to bother beating around the bush—Lincoln would just see through it and look a little unimpressed.

He looks unimpressed regardless, but.

“Why?” he asks drily. “Are you planning world werewolf domination?”

Clarke snorts tea out her nose because that sounds like the title to some cheesy vampires versus werewolves gore-porn, and also because Lincoln making a lame joke in any sort of capacity is awesome.

“More like a friendly merger,” she muses, wondering how much goading it would take to convince the Blake’s to move into the lodge, at least until the renovations are over. At least here, they’d have real beds to sleep in. And furniture.

As if reading her mind, Lincoln sobers. “No,” he says sternly. “Absolutely not—I don’t need this place being taken over by a bunch of teenage mongrels.”

“Too late,” Raven quips from the lobby. Clarke sometimes forgets her friend always seems to be present during these conversations.

“By _anymore_ teenage mongrels,” Lincoln amends.

“But Lincoln,” Clarke says slyly, “What about Octavia?”

Lincoln frowns.

“She doesn’t even have a bed there,” Clarke argues. “And it gets _cold_ at night—Lincoln, she’s _cold_.”

He stalks out without another word. Clarke figures it means she’s won, and she steps out to call Octavia.

In the end, it doesn’t take much convincing at all. Once she has Octavia on her side, Monty and Jasper are quick to follow, and Miller doesn’t really have a horse in the race either way, so.

Bellamy still grumbles about it, of course, but he grumbles about everything so they just take it in stride and pack up Tangerine with their few belongings, which include dozens of sweatpants and fifty pounds of frozen meat.

“Why do you drive this junk, anyway?” he asks on their fourth trip between the lodge and the house. “I’ve seen your house. You could definitely afford better.”

Clarke frowns deeply at him, and pats the dashboard softly. “Don’t listen to him,” she coos. “He’s just jealous.”

Bellamy quirks a brow. “Of what, exactly? The inanimate hunk of metal?”

“She has a name, Bellamy. It’s Tangerine.”

“Like the song?”

Clarke looks at him sharply, but he’s fiddling with the broken air vent before giving up, and by then she’s turned back to the road. “Yeah,” she admits. She doesn’t tell him no one’s ever guessed that, before—not since her dad.

Bellamy clears his throat as they near the turnoff for the lodge. “Keep going,” he says. “Just a little further.”

Clarke turns to give him a questioning look, but turns off her blinker and passes the turn. “To where, exactly?”

“Wherever the hell you want, Princess,” he smirks.

Clarke sighs, but can’t fight a smile. It’s good to have this, she thinks. It’s easy between them, and warm. Even without sex, she thinks she could get used to spending time with him, which is. Well, she just hadn’t really expected it.

She hated him a few weeks ago.

“Any special requests?” she asks.

“Surprise me.” And that’s practically a challenge, which he _knows_ she can’t turn down, so.

She drives him to the garbage dump. He laughs when they pull up to the closed gate, and she turns off the ignition smugly.

“Trying to tell me something?” he asks with a lopsided grin. It’s messy and happy, and she mirrors it.

“I just thought you’d feel more comfortable around your own kind.”

He steps out of the truck without another word, still smiling. She follows suit; she’s itching for a run, and she’s hoping he’ll race her. She hasn’t beat him yet, but they’ve tied a few times, and she can’t wait to rub it in his face when she finally pulls ahead.

The air smells like trash, but it’s not awful—almost sweet, and tangy.

“Up for a run, old man?” Clarke grins, unlacing her sneakers.

Bellamy kicks off his boots. “God,” he sighs, “I thought you’d never ask.”

She doesn’t win, but by the time they finish he’s breathing heavy and stumbling, so she counts it a victory anyway. She lets down the tailgate and hops up—Bellamy just leans down, because he has ridiculous legs.

Clarke’s the one to break the silence. “What’s up?” Her clothes are stuck to the sweat on her skin, her hair is too, and she’s trying to lower her heartrate unnoticeably, but Bellamy still somehow looks worse.

He’s shuffling his hands in his lap, looking altogether _nervous_ , which she’s not sure how to take. Bellamy Blake doesn’t _do_ nervous—insufferable, yes. Arrogant, asshole, over-bearing and impatient, all day long. He’s also sometimes sweet and sentimental, but Clarke tries not to think about that.

“The Alpha,” he starts with a heavy sigh. “The one who turned you; her name was Diana.”

Clarke stares blankly for a moment while her mind processes the information. “What?”

“Sydney,” he continues. “At least, that’s what she said her name was. She and my mom, they grew up together.” He coughs out the dry mockery of a laugh. “O and I used to call her Aunt.”

Clarke, strangely, isn’t bursting with questions or the need for explanations. It’s becoming difficult for her to feel anything besides the heat of the metal under her thighs, and the heat of the boy-wolf beside her.

“My mother was our Alpha. It passed down to her from her dad, and it was supposed to pass down to me, but,” he trails off, and Clarke almost interrupts him because she already knows how this story ends.

“But Diana took it. She killed my mom, and she ran away like the coward she was,” he growls. “Most of the pack left after that.”

“Why?” Clarke wonders, propriety be damned. She and Bellamy have talked before—not about this, maybe not on this caliber, but. They’ve talked, and they _know_ how to be around each other now, so she knows he won’t mind her pushing.

He gives a self-deprecating grin. “Most wolves don’t want to follow half-Alphas.”

“What does that even mean?” she asks hotly, feeling a rising resentment towards anyone that might question Bellamy’s right to the position.

 _Her_ position, she realizes numbly. The rights she stole the night she was bitten.

“Someone who's born to inherit the rights,” he explains. “But then doesn’t, for whatever reason.”

“What other reasons are there?” Clarke asks, finally feeling the hunger for information that she’s used to. Bellamy must sense her excitement because he chuckles.

“I dunno, lots. Sometimes they don’t want to be Alpha, so they defer, or they merge with another pack and become beta.”

“And sometimes the rights are taken,” Clarke finishes softly.

“Yeah,” Bellamy breathes.

In all the weeks she’s spent with Bellamy, all the casual touches—sometimes less-casual touches—and playful affection, she has yet to actually hug him. But it seems like the only thing to do in this instance, and so she leans the few inches over and wraps her arms around his chest.

He tenses for the first few seconds, before melting against her, dipping his face into her hair. He pulls until she’s propped up in his lap, and she presses her nose against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, voice muffled by his skin and shirt.

“Don’t be,” he says into her hair. “You’re a fantastic Alpha.”

They stay like that until the sun dips down. He holds her hand for the ride home.

 

Christmas sort of catches Clarke by surprise that year. One minute, she’s helping the Blake’s drywall their hallway over Thanksgiving break; and the next, Raven’s dragging her and Abby to Midnight Mass.

Octavia comes too because she’s never been, and she thinks it sounds exciting. She falls asleep within minutes of the opening prayer, and stays that way until the communion.

“You didn’t think I’d miss out on the wine, did you?” she whispers on their way down the line.

She’s no longer yawning by the time they reach Clarke’s house—she’s staying the night there because, in her words, she’s _tired of smelling like boy all the time, I mean_ Jesus.

Since it’s one-thirty AM and so technically Christmas, Octavia makes them all change into pajamas and open their presents once they’re inside.

Predictably, they both bought Clarke books. She and Raven have a history of stuffing each other’s stockings with a dozen ridiculous gag gifts from the Dollar Tree, so they each end up with glow-in-the-dark silly putty, joke candles, jumbo chalk, penis-shaped lollypops, and holographic stickers. They pitched in for a stocking for Octavia, too, and she cries. Then she makes them promise not to tell, and threatens them for good measure.

When the sun is at an appropriate height in the sky, Clarke and Raven surprise Abby with breakfast in bed, and a few audiobooks for her to listen to during her commute to the hospital. She cries too.

It’s still pretty early when they drive over to the lodge, but the boys are awake already. Wells beats them there, wearing a full Santa suit, like when he and Clarke were little. She wishes she still had her elf costume, so they could match.

Lincoln gives Clarke a box of Boysenberry tea, which she’d fallen in love with a few weeks earlier, and Raven some Mint Julep. He hands Octavia her gift discretely, which everyone notices but pretends not to see.

Clarke didn’t have a lot of time to agonize over perfecting everyone’s gifts, since she only remembered to buy them a week before the day, but she’s still pretty confident in her choices. They’re relatively standard—a new tea press for Lincoln; Gameboys for Miller, Jasper and Monty (“For when the electricity’s out at your house.” “Fuck, Clarke—one for _each_ of us? Oh my _God_.”)

“How can you possibly afford _all_ of this?” Bellamy asks, staring down at his new carpenter master’s guidebook.

Clarke shrugs. “My mom is really unnecessarily wealthy, and so am I by default.”

Bellamy predictably gifts everyone with snuggies—Spiderman and Captain America ones for Jasper and Monty, the Hulk for Lincoln, Ironman for Raven, Batman for Miller, Thor for Wells, and butterflies for Octavia.

Clarke’s has princess crowns and slippers all over it, which she glares about while he stands above her smirking.

The real surprise comes when Jasper and Monty place matching boxes in Clarke and Bellamy’s laps. “They’re a set,” Jasper says proudly.

They unwrap the gifts only a little hesitantly, to find a pair of thickly knitted sweaters. Clarke’s is a sunset-like pattern of orange, pink and red, with the word MOM in black letters across the back.

Bellamy’s is the inverse, all blues, greens and violets, with DAD in white.

“Miller, did you make these?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke’s surprised to find he’s not even trying to hide his excitement, quickly ripping his t-shirt off to slip the sweater on instead. Clarke changes hers in the bathroom, and then sits back down beside him so their knees just barely touch.

“You knit?” she asks Miller. She doesn’t really know much about the man—he’s the quietest of the pack, a little older than Octavia, but younger than Bellamy. And apparently he knits.

He shrugs. “It’s relaxing.”

“Cool,” Clarke nods, and drops a pile of wrappings on Jasper’s head.

She waits until the others are curled up with hot chocolate, watching made-for-TV Christmas movies, to find Bellamy out on the balcony. He’s got a half-empty mug of chocolate going cold with soggy marshmallows, and he’s still wearing his DAD sweater. She sits cross-legged beside him and slides the present into his lap.

He looks surprised, and turns to her sheepishly. “I didn’t get you anything else,” he says, apologetically. Clarke shakes her head.

“I know,” she assures him. “That’s not why I did this.”

Bellamy nods and slowly sets down his mug to unwrap the gift. It’s small, the size of his hand, and easily opened.

It’s a painting, one of hers, of a black wolf with blue-ringed eyes. If you looked long enough, you’d see five others in the lines of his fur, ready to follow him.

Bellamy stares at it for a long while, saying nothing. Clarke clears her throat, refusing to feel embarrassed.

“For what it’s worth,” she catches his eye. “I think you’re a great Alpha, too.”

He kisses her, and it’s even better than she’d thought it would be. He tastes like chocolate, and some of her Boysenberry tea, the thief. It’s a little awkward at first because of the angle, but then he grips her by the thighs and hoists her on his lap and _this_ , this is _much_ better.

She tangles her fingers in his hair because if she lets them wander, she knows they’ll never stop. He slips his hands under her sweater and presses his palms against her spine, urging her closer until she dips down to grind against him, and his moan makes her whole body buzz.

He goes to take her sweater off, but she shakes her head, pulling back just enough to whisper “The kids,” against his mouth, because the balcony doors are large and see-through and connected to the room Monty and Jasper share. Bellamy nods and lets the sweater fall back, and then slips a hand in her shorts.

He grinds the heel of his palm against her until she keens so loud he has to bite her tongue to shut her up.

From there it escalates quickly; hands up shirts and down pants, until they’re both panting and desperate and grinding. His fingers are buried so deep inside her she can’t breathe, and his cock is warm and heavy in her hand as he curses into the skin of her neck.

He comes first, but she’s quick to follow, and he’s still inside her when they hear the click of Monty’s lock.

The boys joke about _Mom and Dad making out on the balcony!_ And Clarke and Bellamy share a grin over their heads because, _God, they have no idea._

She'd promised her mom she’d sleep at home that night, so he walks her to the truck. He doesn’t shove her against the door to make out, or fuck her in the bed or anything.

He opens her door for her, and tucks his hand into her hair just to feel the weight of her head. He presses his lips to the edge of her mouth.

“Next time,” he promises, “I’ll make you scream.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Clarke breathes out shallowly. He’s still laughing when she pulls down the drive.

 

The next time she sees him, it’s to work on the house’s plumbing, and Miller and Wells are one room over—but that doesn’t stop Bellamy from pressing her against the wall, letting her legs wrap around him as he mouths wet kisses down the side of her neck.

He calls her that night while Abby’s asleep, and says “Next time, I’ll put my mouth on your cunt and make you come twice.” Then he talks her through an orgasm so intense she bites through the skin of her hand to keep from screaming. “Fuck,” he grunts into the phone as he finishes. She’s still feeling boneless, and everything’s a little blurred. “I miss you.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, unsure how to let him know that it’s the same for her.

He chuckles. “Next time, I’ll make you say it.”

Things progress. They put up a solid wall between the kitchen and entranceway. He eats her out on the new countertop. They buy an actual couch. She uses her mouth on him, pressed against the upholstery. They install windows on the first floor.

He has her against the wall again, skirt hitched up and legs around his waist. His fingers drift down to thumb at the edge of her underwear. She whines as he mutters something against the skin of her throat—that’s something she’s learned; when Bellamy _really_ gets going, he starts to swear in Tagalog. It’s great.

A throat clears in the doorway, and Bellamy nearly drops her in surprise. They pull apart enough that she can look over his shoulder and see Miller, watching with a raised eyebrow and unimpressed smirk.

Bellamy gently lets her down, readjusting the hem of her skirt so her thighs aren’t on display. She rubs her face on his shoulder and leaves to find Octavia. She winks at Miller on her way out.

 

“So, what,” Raven asks, carefully stepping over sprawling tree roots as they march through the woods. She’s followed Clarke out on one of her morning hikes, under the pretense of _physical therapy_. She still has a severe limp, and sometimes her leg throbs when it rains, but otherwise she’s healing nicely. “You have a public sex kink, now?”

Clarke huffs, irritated. “Not _public_ , it’s just—we’re never really alone! There’s always Monty or Jasper or Miller,” she turns to stare at Raven pointedly. “Or _you_.”

Raven just shrugs; it’s not like she can deny it, but she also doesn’t feel bad. Clarke turns back to the trail, not bothering to look where she steps; this is something else she’s mastered, the instinctual knowledge of where to place her foot. Raven likes to pretend she’s not jealous.

“Besides,” she says lightly, “We haven’t had sex.”

“ _Ow, son of a—_ “ Raven swears as she trips, and then steadies, giving Clarke a meaningful look. “What the hell _have_ you been doing?”

Clarke shrugs, a little helplessly. She likes messing around—fingers and mouths and whispered promises over the phone—and she likes doing it with Bellamy, but she’s been meaning to bring it up.

She wants more, and she _knows_ he does; it’s pretty apparent whenever she grinds down against his thigh. But he doesn’t know she’s only ever been with Lexa, and only for one night, with small fingers and small tongue—and Clarke isn’t really sure how to go about navigating that conversation.

“It’s not that we don’t _want_ to,” she starts, and then pauses while a breeze runs through her hair.

“ _Okay_ ,” Raven pushes, “So—” Clarke shushes her, closing her eyes to study the air. It smells different, and there’s something in the back of her mind, pressing forward to be remembered.

Copper, which means blood. Blood of a fox, and something else. Something a little more human, but not quite. She almost remembers…

The fox on the grave. It smelled like a girl.

Clarke’s eyes snap open and she sprints towards the scent, following the trail without much trouble. She jumps nimbly over roots and fallen branches until she finds it. It’s unconscious, probably passed out from the blood loss, its front leg caught messily in a metal trap. Clarke snaps it open easily, ignoring the slice of her fingers, and gingerly cradles the creature to her chest. She tries not to jostle it too much as she runs, finding an angry Raven, annoyed at being left behind.

“What the hell, Griff—” She sees the fox and pauses, turning without a word to follow Clarke through the trees.

Lincoln is in the kitchen, washing dishes when they storm in. Raven brushes the island counter clean, so Clarke can lay the fox down. Without a word, Lincoln presses a dishtowel to the wound, wrapping it tightly around like a bandage.

“She isn’t a fox,” Clarke says, and he nods. Raven looks between the two and frowns.

“Really? Could have fooled me. In fact, still fooling me.”

“She’s trapped in the form,” Lincoln says darkly. “She forgot how to change.” He digs around in a few cupboards, collecting mixing bowls, glass beakers and an empty syringe.

“Can you fix her?” Clarke asks, not looking up from the fox’s chest, rising and falling so faintly she almost can’t tell.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, crushing some sort of red leaves in a wooden bowl. “I’ve only seen it done once before, and not like this.”

“Well, what happened?” asks Raven. “Did it work?”

“She took the bear’s skin to reveal the man,” Lincoln shrugs. “And then he died because he had not eaten.”

“Inspiring,” Raven drawls. Lincoln ignores her and fills the syringe with the leaf water. He shares a glance with Clarke.

“You will need to hold her down,” he warns. “This will not be pleasant.”

Clarke nods stiffly, reaching out to place both palms along the fox’s body, one on its hip, and the other on its shoulder. She’s careful to avoid the injury. Lincoln pierces it in the tail end of the spine, and it cries out sharply.

It only writhes a little, clearly too weak to give much of a fight. Mostly it cries and whines until Clarke’s heart breaks.

And then suddenly it’s not rust-colored fur beneath her hands, but ruddy skin, and there’s a girl lying on the countertop.

“Holy shit,” Raven breathes. Clarke keeps her hand on the girl’s chest to feel it rising.

She’s alive.


End file.
